You Can't Always Get What You Want
by booze ink and bullets
Summary: Freddy got more intoxicated than planned undercover at the crew's off-books bash, and in a sticky situation in the men's room. Naughty/sexual acts, bad language, very lemon. Hard SLASH Blonde/Orange, soft slash White/Orange, aftertaste Blonde/Eddie Cabot. Probably OOC. Only somewhat consensual. Don't read if you do not like. I don't own Reservoir Dogs. I will not get sued for this.


It's that time again; welcome to my absolutely original fanfic, pretty much shamelessly OOC and slash-a-rific (yes, that means sexual content between male characters, those in the cheap seats) I really do hope that doesn't mean I'm gonna deal with any kind of bs concerning this: don't like, don't read, don't comment, don't wanna hear about it. Pairing is Blonde (Vega)/ Orange (Newandyke), and White (Dimmick)/ Orange (Newandyke). Little aftertaste of Nice Guy Eddie/Vega, but only if you stare at it long enough. It's not mine, I have no rights to Resevoir Dogs, obviously, c'mon.

 **You Can't Always Get What You Want**

Freddy was drunk, and that was not, under any circumstances, part of the cover he was supposed to have on the LAPD's dime.

No, he was not too drunk, maybe, he'd had one too many, and yes, he was going to catch hell for it.

But to celebrate Vic Vega's official back on the block getting out of jail six month anniversary, Cabot had rented the Silver Heel, classiest low life mob dive bar he owned, out for the night for the sole purpose that the wrecking crew could get shitfaced in privacy, and gangsters don't turn down a party. Cabot had even organized for an army of cab drivers to carry the rainbow of ex-cons back to their respective shithole homes across LA, so Freddy had no real fear of getting behind a wheel.

None of which mattered now that Freddy had his forehead pressed against the chilly red tiles in the men's room staring down, watching his piss swirl down the drain of the urinal, hoping to Christ he could keep his head steady.

When he raised his head, he found he wasn't alone.

Six feet away stood the man of the hour, jacket buttoned crookedly, fly sloppily unzipped to the bottom, slouched against the tiles with an arm shielding his eyes. Apparently Vic Vega, Mr. Blonde in this absurd system, found himself in a similar position.

"Y'aright, big boy?" Freddy did his now habitual con man laugh; for all the mob went on about respect, he was amazed how often the men took deep seated jabs at each other. "Need someone to shake it for ya?"

The taller man uncovered his eyes and turned his head. A hazy smirk crossed over his features. He let out a low snicker and pulled himself upright. "You offering, baby boy?"

The inside of Freddy's mouth dried. He forced himself to swallow. Vic was just drunk; he probably hadn't heard what Freddy'd said. It occurred to him he was joking with this dangerous criminal with his cock out. He shook himself just once and carefully tucked himself back into underwear then his fly, and zipped.

"Look, Blonde", he cleared his throat and pulled a cigarette from his pack. He'd never smoked as a cop. In under a week he'd learned to chain smoke like a professional. "I'm gonna have mercy on you, being your big night and all. You want some pills? I got some on me, doctor shit, now if I ain't got something you like, which I doubt, it's one phone call away, okay? Tell you what, I got a little coke on me, it's yours, what's a little snow between partners-

"You staring at my cock?" Vic interrupted.

The cigarette fell from his mouth and sizzled on the slightly damp floor."What?"

"I asked," Vic methodically tucked himself back into underwear, punctuating each word with a pause. "Are. You. Staring. At. My. Cock. Little. Faggot. Boy?" He zipped his fly over the bulge like a reverse striptease and then turned to face Freddy. "Well…are you?"

He couldn't tell if the flush he felt crawling up his neck was showing yet, but he shook his head with a shit eating grin. "Blonde, you're drunk."

But the taller man didn't deny it, but closed the gap between them. "Answer me."

Freddy backed towards the wall. God, why now? Why'd he have to drink this much? Why on the night he'd drunk did he have to swing this way? He didn't swing this way every day.

But Blonde pinned him there with his intimidating height just a few inches from the wall. Freddy made one last effort to hold his ground, to square his feet flat as the alcohol would allow. He tried to push past. "Fuck it, I don't care if it's your big night, you don't get to-"

And he didn't expect the taller man to push him back by the shoulders either. "You know who you remind me of?"

It was only this close that Freddy realized the amount of shit he was in. To say that he was outnumbered against the ex-con was a gross understatement; the man had eight inches on him and probably forty if not fifty pounds. If the broad shoulders, which had come from many days hard labor in the pen, were any indication, he could tear Freddy in half. If he wanted to escape, it'd be by luck and strategy, not by power.

But did he want to?

"You remind me of my cell bitch," the words drawled out slow, drunk. The hand on his shoulder slid up his sleeve, toyed at his collar, pulling it out, before yanking his tie into a noose, Freddy lurched forwards, "now, my boy Lucas had a baby soft face with sweet sugar lips," the other hand slid into his hair, pulling the strands between its fingers, "and long blonde hair like a girl's," the hand in his hair caressed his chin "and a blush" , the hand pressed into his shoulder pushed down to his hip bone, letting every ounce of the touch be felt, then feeling the circumference of his waist "and a skinny little ass" Vic slipped one his fingers between his lips and he was too overwhelmed to bite down "and of course" Vic let his hand drop to Freddy's belt and rest there, and then, somehow, pushed his thigh between Freddy's thighs, Freddy instinctually let his thighs roll around the thigh, and Vic pulled the finger out of his mouth with a soft little pop. "Your eyes aren't the same color of his," he whispered into Freddy's ear, "but nobody can see that in the dark."

Freddy couldn't remember what happened. Maybe his hardon had robbed him of all his blood and he lost his balance. Somehow, he was shoved against the wall. The big gangster's mouth covered his. He was kissing, groaning, sucking, humping the way the big gangster wanted.

Vic looped his tongue around his, fighting for dominance. He could taste the steak the man had eaten hours ago along with the stew of alcohol and cigarettes he'd consumed since. Vic reached out to touch every part of him. Buttons popped. Suspender straps snapped. It was a frenzy. Freddy had no choice, so he worked with all his concentration to do the same to Vega. Soon, both men had their shirts open.

For the briefest moment, Vic stopped to stare down at him. At the thin but taut little body Freddy had spent years training to keep trim and fit. He was fucking proud of that little six pack. Vic's eyes drifted down his body until it ended at the dirty blonde colored trail of soft hair vanishing under the band of his briefs. Then stared at his half opened fly. And that stare made him stiffen all the more.

Vic wasn't bad news to look at either. Freddy'd been right; the shoulders, chest, abs had all been chiseled to perfect planes, taut, rippling with an almost feral strength. The man's sweat had long ago overpowered his expensive cologne. Their chests touched.

But the stare couldn't have stayed a stare alone.

Vic ran his hand down Freddy's chest, tweaking one of his nipples harshly. Freddy lurched forwards again, grinding his groin against Vic's thigh.

"Look at you," Blonde crooned down at him. "Look at your flushed money shot face."

"Where's my cigarette?" Freddy heard himself mutter stupidly. In his own head, he kicked himself for showing such wanton uncontrol, to let himself get cornered, pinned against a wall, pawed, caressed and mauled by the man he'd see behind bars in a few days.

"I got something better than a cigarette," the bigger man grabbed Freddy's hand and pressed it against his crotch.

It was heat, it was the straining contour of the organ as it stretched the fabric and cotton beneath it, it was the almost imperceptible dewy drops of liquid collecting between the layers.

"You ever taken something that big down your throat?" the man's voice growled. "You taken it somewhere else?"

"No," Freddy whined. "Not as big as you."

That low dark chuckle rumbled from Vega's throat again; he sounded for all the world like a purring Sumatran tiger. "Well, don't worry your pretty head. I can be oh so gentle," then dug his teeth into the flesh on Freddy's throat.

The ball of heat dropped lower into his groin. Vic had found the spot. He could almost see the massive hickey rising on his skin, plum and rosy. He could feel a pulse in Vic's cock begin to pulse.

"I could make you suck it here and now" the man licked the inside of his ear before snapping at his throat again. "I could make you get down on your faggot knees and suck me off here. You'd like that, wouldn't you, Lucas?" He could hear the sadistic smirk in the man's voice. "You're gonna put your knees on this piss stained floor and take this cock between your lips. Say yes, daddy, I would."

"Someone's gonna see." Freddy coughed. The cock under his hand twitched and grew even stiffer. Mr. Blonde had an exhibition fetish.

"Who cares?" Vic hooked his arms under Freddy's and pulled him towards him. Their groins ground again and again. The cotton was chafing him in all the right and wrong places at once. "I want 'em all to see. Nice Guy, Pink, Brown, even your sugar daddy White. I already know you fucked. You let an old man fuck you, you degenerate little punk. Say it, Lucas. Say I'm faggot scum."

"Please," was the only word Freddy could work out of his throat.

"Please what?" Vic taunted him before burying another tender bite on Freddy's throat.

"Please unzip me, it hurts." Freddy didn't have to say another word; Vic's hands unzipped him and dove into his underwear. The big calloused hands handled him like a pro, stroking him off. He wondered how long he was going to last.

The air conditioner clicked on somewhere in the building. A blast of air hit his face. Something in his brain clicked back. What was he doing, here, in a dive bar bathroom, getting worked on by a convicted criminal? Giving into urges was one thing, but if he'd thought getting drunk was going to get him in trouble, this was going to get him killed. It showed how little he could resist and with no purpose behind those choices. He wasn't a volatile criminal, he was undercover police officer. He could think his way out of anything, get away from anything, if it could be done, he could do it. What had he been thinking, putting himself at risk for just a few minutes of pleasure?

But Vic knew none of this. He loomed above him, hand on his cock, beating him off with a impatient rhythm. He pushed another wet sloppy kiss on his lips.

"I wonder how you take it, Lucas," he grinned down at Freddy, his voice dark with drunkeness. It was clear how intoxicated the man above him still was. "Nuh; I'm not gonna do you here. I'm gonna get you home, in my new apartment. I'm gonna see how you want it. We got all night. Do you want it fast or slow, gentle or rough? Maybe you wanna wear something hot. I'd love to see you wearing something black and lacy. Or maybe I wanna see you in leather and chains. You like that? " The taller man was going to bring him to completion any minute.

"I know what I want," Freddy faked a moan and found the answer all in one flash.

"Tell me, Lucas".

He grabbed down on the man's crotch and hissed, "I want your fucking hands off me, you drunk piece of shit, because I AM NOT FOR SALE." And held on, digging his fingernails into the stiff flesh, twisting the whole package sharply to the left. The gangster gave out a grunt of pain, and Freddy didn't blame him. "Or else I'm gonna tell every one of our pals outside that you're an assfucking jail buck who molests unsuspecting jewel thieves in the bathroom."

Vic forced a chuckle out. "I didn't mean that rough, baby."

"Hands off NOW." Freddy made a gesture he could have made from the beginning; he reached for Vic's gun. The gangster was suddenly very hands off, very much further away, and raising a fist, his face a mask of bravado and macho rage.

"You do that again you're really gonna get something to swallow," Vic leaned over the sink and turned the water on, and splashed his face; he looked ready to vomit.

"You got that coke on you still?" Vic asked. "Or was that just a line to get in my pants?"

Of course he did; the LAPD was swimming in the shit from the busts they made on a daily basis. He took the unmarked evidence baggy from his right front pants pocket. Criminals are smart about everything except their drugs; they put it in their pocket in time to be frisked. It wasn't much, just about what a wanna be dealer would have on him. He flipped the baggie onto the counter so softly it didn't open. Vic picked it up and held the plastic up to the light, smiled and pocketed the bag. He glanced up at Freddy again. "You waiting on someone?"

Freddy hadn't realized he was still hanging near the wall, breathing heavily, fly still unzipped. He hurriedly tucked his softening prick back into his underwear and zipped.

"You wanna button up, Blonde," Freddy prompted and began to straighten his disheveled clothes. "They're gonna we ran off together."

Freddy started redressing in front of the mirror, and thankfully, Blonde did the same. But he never took his leering, lustful eyes off the redressing cop.

"Didn't we, though?"

"You ran off with yourself," Freddy retorted. "I'm running off home. Past my goddamn bedtime."

"Whatever, you cocktease junkie fag. You know what you want."

"You don't know what YOU want, Blonde."

Blonde paused, raised his eyes to Orange's. "You know what I really want…I wanna know what the real score is about you Something about you just ain't right. I just feel it. Feel like talking?"

Freddy paused. "You can't always get what you want."

"God, I hate the Stones."

"Yeah, you would. Just take your free stash and go, Blonde," Freddy said with as much conviction as he could muster. He smoothed his clothes down, properly attached, zipped and buttoned again, and tightened his tie again. For all intents and purposes, he could have just been hugging the porcelain goddess.

"Who bought you if you're not for sale, Lucas?" the hair on the back of Freddy's neck raised at the obscene pet name. "Is it…White?"

The telltale blush rose over his face, and Vic grinned. "It IS. Oh…well, who am I to stand in the way?" Freddy wrenched the door open, with Vic on his heels, and it was though the last half hour had never been. Blue was nowhere, Cabot was staring at his trusty address book, Brown was slumped across a table, Pink was laughing uncontrollably across from him. Nice Guy was chattering endless to the bartender. White turned to look at them and gave Orange a concerned look. Freddy. Orange. Fuck if he was too drunk horny and overwhelmed to remember his own name.

"Where the fuck have you two been?" Nice Guy offered Vic a tender, genuine smile.

"The moon," Vic answered.

"I been there, too," Nice Guy answered with a perplexed smile, and pulled the beloved jail bird into a bro hug. "Y'aright?"

"I could have drunk a few gallons less."

"Speaking of which," Freddy interrupted the room loudly, "if it's no difference, I'm calling it a night."

"Now?" Nice Guy Eddie shrugged. "We're just getting started."

Brown groaned, Pink still had not stopped laughing. "He…he's telling about Dark Side of the Moon and Wizard of Oz," he said between bursts of laughter. "And then he just…" Pink slapped his hand flat on the table.

White put his arm under Brown's and helped hoist him. "Honestly I think I'm good for the night, too…and so are you." White demanded at Pink. Pink didn't protest.

"Hey, what the fuck am I paying you bums for?" Cabot shouted across the bar. "C'mon, hustle!" He snapped his fingers sharply and made a gesture at the four cab drivers sitting just near the door, playing poker. They flapped down his cards and started to pay each other out. Freddy had a ride home, and not a moment too soon.

"Hey, hey, what the fuck is this shit now?" Cabot barked again. "There were five you fucks a minute ago."

The lead driver looked back and Cabot perplexed. "Well, yeah, there was, one of my guys took Blue home already."

Cabot calculated in his head, and slammed his fist on the bar. He didn't like to miscalculate, he didn't like to make mistakes at all. "Well, whose gonna drive us back?"

"Can't you drive yourself back?"

Cabot's eyes went dead with rage. "I'm a big man," he hissed darkly. "I don't drive myself nowhere, I don't drive nobody else nowhere. So what the fuck have I hired a driver for?"

The head driver was visibly sweating now, tongue tied. "I-I could call another one of my boys to-"

"Okay, new plan," White settled Brown on his own two feet at last. "You got one driver for Pink, one for Brown, and you got one for Orange and me."

"Now you got me uh… distracted," Brown yawned out loud, "I was saying something here."

"How's that work?" Nice Guy Eddie demanded. "You gonna have yourself a sleepover?"

"You were…you finished what you're saying," Pink couldn't keep the laughter to himself.

White looked past Eddie to his father. "Look, we all wanna clear our heads. We got a big day Monday. Nice long car ride always does that. I think Orange here could hear one more rundown of the plan just to make sure he's got his feet on the ground."

Cabot shrugged his shoulders. "I trust your judgment."

"That's alright with you?" White had grabbed Orange's hand. Freddy's. Orange's. "Go for a ride with me?"

Freddy looked deep into the older man's eyes. During the past few weeks, he'd come to know this gentleman thief, as there was no other in this ragtag crew. Freddy had not yet deciphered him. The other men were easy to profile, their personality's loud, brash, on the surface, raw, and rough. Pink the argumentative ballbuster, using wit to cope with his short stature and lack of esteem. Blue the old time con with one last rodeo in him before he went to pasture. Brown the big mouth, with speculations, theories and words, who couldn't admit he'd nothing to say. Eddie the big shot, wearin gaudy jewelry, pushing his weight around, bullying, ordering, all to impress his father. Vic Vega the badass, ex-convict, beloved, loyal, cold until he decided to strike out like an alpha predator, sociopath, unstable, capable of anything, and yes, decidedly sexy, but most certainly not dating material unless Charles Manson came next. Cabot the taciturn, stony, by the book, my way or the high way dictator.

But who was White? White struck him as a man in control, even headed, ready to take charge if it were granted him, ready to nurture, adapt, tutor and instruct, and ready to quell arguments with poise and ease. He seemed every part a rounded paternal figure, had he not also been a hardened criminal. Had he not been Larry Dimmick, a talented, capable, deadly crminal with a record stretching back to Milwaukee and lasting over twenty years.

Freddy he couldn't help but wonder how much more there was to find.

He knew that the ride would not end back at the Silver Heel. The ride was going to end at White's house, and if Freddy was reading the hand that held his own right, it was a different approach from Blonde's, only the invitation was the same.

He held the older man's eye contact. In them, he had a vision; Dimmick's living room. Not flashy like Eddy's, nor spare and militant like Vic's. A comfortable couch that rolled into a lavish bed roomy enough for two. Classy bebop records beside a record player. A well-stocked bar ready to entertain. Not pristine or grandiose, but clean, hip, and fit for a night of slow, lustful, sensual woo. The whole room was done in muted creams, yellows, tans, and of course, whites.

Looked good right now.

"Yeah, that's a good plan," Orange gave White's hand the lightest squeeze. Both walked after the cab driver and urged the other two to follow.

Orange caught sight of Vega in one of the many silvery mirrors. Vic Vega's eyes were burning with pent up, blue balled rage. Orange smirked. You can't always get what you want.


End file.
